


Miracles

by catastrophage



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Brain Damage, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, Drug Abuse, Enemies to Friends, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Head Injury, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Language, M/M, Masturbation, Overdose, Past Drug Use, Post Season 03, Recreational Drug Use, Suicide Attempt, s03ep16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-02-28 12:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13271157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catastrophage/pseuds/catastrophage
Summary: Someone called his name. "Nick!" His chest felt like it would explode, as his heart skipped a beat and then pushed against his lungs much stronger.Can't be,he thought. For a moment he had imagined his dead friend would call him, and it was painful.Nick is ready to end his life after losing his friend. But just one week later a young man wakes up from his coma, a hundred miles away... will they find back to each other?





	1. Suicide

**Author's Note:**

> _This is the end of the world_  
>  _And it's time we saw a miracle_  
>  _Come on, it's time for something biblical_  
>  _To pull us through..._  
>  (Muse - Apocalypse Please)
> 
> Welcome to Miracles, the fix-it I wrote after the final episodes of season 3! The first two chapters are a little vague and very short, but please keep reading, it really starts with the third chapter. As the story progresses, the plot will be clearer, some paths will cross and all things I promised in the tags will happen. We will also meet some canon characters, and I think I have a surprise or two at hand. Have fun!

**Suicide**

The dam was crumbling, breaking, destabilized by the explosives and pushed away by the heavy masses of water. The bridge cracked open, concrete tearing apart easily as if it was paper, and Nick could feel the floor shifting towards the lake. His grip on the fence tightened. What a slow way to die, he thought. He had always thought he would just overdose, end his life with a last shot, a last high, drift into unconsciousness quickly. He had done it before, but he had been brought back in the emergency room. Only there it started to feel like he was dying, when actually he was taken back to life. Felt like shit, all the pain, sweating, shivering, vomiting caused by the naloxone - death felt easier back then. Now it was all different. No overdose, no peacefully lying down for his last nap, no simply stopping to breathe. He would either get hit by the debris hard enough - or he would drown. Nick did not fear death, but drowning was not something he looked forward to. He could not help his legs starting to shake, nervousness creeping up to his heart. Adrenaline pushed through his veins, let him experience the fall of the dam in slow motion.

Someone called his name. "Nick!"  
His chest felt like it would explode, as his heart skipped a beat and then pushed against his lungs much stronger. _Can't be,_ he thought. For a moment he had imagined his dead friend would call him, and it was painful. His mistrust was proven right, when he took a glimpse to his side it was someone else. He could see Daniel standing next to him, he now recognized his voice, his accent. "Nicolás!"

"No," Nick moaned. His voice husky, tears welling up. "No," he repeated, shook his head. He sent a smile to the man who was trying to help him, but Nick looked sad with the smile even more so than his empty stare before. His grip so tight at the fence, that the metal cut into his fingers. He would not let go.  
"Not you," he whispered now, staring back at the lake. Trying to remember the sound of the other voice he thought he had heard. That wicked smile he already missed so much, even though he had seen it just yesterday. Those bright blue eyes, crazy sound of laughter. His honest words, always said at the wrong time, and bittersweet so often. 

_You stayed because you love me._

Nick closed his eyes, pressed his nose and forehead against the cold fence.  
Awaiting the fall, and the water pulling him under.

_You can go kamikaze another day._

And then something hit his head, followed by a moment of pain, just a second.  
His thoughts shut up, his world ended.


	2. Flood and Light

**Flood and Light**

The explosion came with a blast, wave of pressure, barely felt as he lay unconscious, flat on the ground. Blood had run down his face, started drying already, as he had been left to rot alone. Masses of water poured in, swirled around the lifeless body, pushing him against the walls of the dam. Skin was scratched from the debris as the flood pushed him further. The sound of a cracking bone - his ankle got jammed between some big stones, freed again by the brute force of the lake finally breaking free. The water was carrying him along like a rag doll, pushing and pulling him, letting him collide with the debris one moment, keeping him up on the surface the next. Another bone cracking, not that he could have heard it. He was gone.

There was a light at the end of the rough path of unconsciousness and pain, soothing affirmation that death is kind and forgiving. But then it felt tormenting, as the white light started to hurt the tightly shut eyes - it felt just too bright. His muscles were cramping and the spasms came over him without any control.

He could hear voices around him, and although they seemed to whisper, the noise was loud as if they shouted. Every twitch with his eyelids hurt, every muscle he moved cramped. He wanted to scream, but his voice was gone, and the slightest movement of his jaw sent lightning bolts through his face. The pain was not bearable, his skull exploding. He could hear a whimper, heartbreaking, dissonant, hoarse, a sound he had never heard before and he realized it was his own.

Then a sensation on his arm, a warm touch, a slight sting and darkness embraced him again, promising some rest, taking away his pain.

 _It's over,_ his mind tried to convince him.

_It's over._


	3. El Cabrón

**El Cabrón**

Nick woke up to the sound of a door slammed shut. The noise startled him, so he sat up quickly. He tried to recollect what had happened, but he failed. The last thing he remembered was him detonating the dam. _What the hell happened?_ He looked around, tried to make out where the sound came from, but the light was still blinding him. He could make out a car, and the outline of a person standing at the trunk. Desperate to understand what was going on, Nick grabbed the ground below. Red desert sand ran through his fingers. _I thought I died._

The person approached him and said something, barely understandable, as he was mumbling terribly. Nick looked up and recognized Daniel, with a nasty looking wound in his face. Victor apparently tried and failed to kill him - just like he had admitted. Nick studied his face, stared at the wound, and since he did not answer his words, Daniel repeated what he had said. "Go find your mother."

Nick got up on his feet. He still felt a little dizzy and his head hurt, but his legs worked. He looked at Daniel with a serious expression, then he slowly shook his head. "No."  
Nick had seen his mother getting into trouble as the dam fell. He couldn't save her life, and even if she survived, she could not save his. The whole suicide note on the dam was dedicated to her, to give her a chance to survive, to save her and to never see her again. Nick had been prepared to die, being alive now and returning to his mother was not what he had planned.

Daniel must have saved him, knocked him out to carry him away. But Nick didn't feel thankful for it. That he escaped this time just meant he would have to die again. Daniel took a deep breath, he seemed to gather all his strength to speak. "You go and find your mother." He tossed a bottle of water to Nick's feet, and it was quite clear he meant for Nick to leave, while he prepared the car for his own escape.

"I'm not!" Nick yelled, eyebrows furrowed. He quickly lowered his voice again, be it because it was bad manners to yell, or because his headache punished him for it. "I'm not searching for my mother, I have done it before and it has _always_ been a mistake." He had little flashbacks of the times he saved her life, the times he held her close to comfort her, the times he had her back. He had supported her no matter how wrong she did, just because she was his mother. He also remembered how she beat him up, until he crouched on the floor. How she killed a woman simply for thinking good of him. How she obviously told everyone else what a piece of shit son he was to her. Her twisted beliefs of how things were, how things should be and who should be in control. And with a painful sting in his heart he remembered how she killed his friend, his best friend, his only friend, for deeds Nick had forgiven him days ago. For deeds not worse than hers. She was the prosecutor, the judge and the executioner all at the same time. Nick had no say in his defense, there was no hearing, no mitigating circumstances. That's how it had always been. Her force, her will and her harsh judgment against him, who was weak and unwilling to fight. Who was worth nothing more than a compliment to her ego, a false demonstration of a caring mother, a victim who could nurture her with narcissistic supply if only he stayed by her side - weak, broken and alone.

"I... I think my mom is sick. She is just as sick as I am," he said in a much calmer tone. He had realized it a long time ago, but only now he could admit it. "I think the best therapy for her is to never see me again. Best for all of us."

With a sassy movement, Nick opened the passenger door and got into the car. Daniel was not exactly the person he wanted to be with, but at least he was going to drive, what meant he was going someplace far away, and any place far away from his mother would be good for Nick.

They had been driving for a while when Daniel finally spoke again. The past hours had just been filled with depressed sighs from Nick, and an occasional suppressed cough from Daniel. One time the man had stopped the car at a street corner, went into a little store and returned with a pack of cigarettes. Nick's sighs were replaced with the clicking sound of a lighter.  
Now he tried it again. Nick was not sure if it was a desperate attempt at breaking the silence or if it really bugged him. "Why did you not go find your mom?"  
What ever it was, it made Nick frown. "She is a murderer. _Just like you._ " He spat the last words out in disgust and reached for another cigarette. "I guess it means you are stuck with a murderer then. _Again._ " Daniel scoffed as well as he could with his injuries.

Nick didn't have much of a choice. Daniel would not let him leave the car anymore once they left the city. He kept the doors locked, and when they took a break he always made sure to keep Nick in sight. He also insisted on driving all of the way, what didn't bother Nick too much, he had never properly learned to drive anyway. With a sigh Nick changed the position in his seat. For the fifth time the day he opened the glove box to search for anything worth keeping. He had been in hopes to find some music, or an audio book, anything to fill the silence. Nothing. "Where are we going?" he asked the older man. He did not expect an answer, they didn't talk much anyway. Daniel had begun staring at the streets with a displeased expression, and his face had turned paler every hour. He needed a doctor, so much was obvious. "Back north," the old man mumbled, moving his jaw as little as possible. "Scared that they kill you once they realize you kept the water out of reach?" Nick's mood was not any better than back at the dam. Daniel just huffed at the snarky remark.

They were driving north at first, but then they were heading east, Nick figured because the sinking sun blinded him in the rear view mirror and the streets before them lay in darkness. Finally north again. Daniel seemed to avoid civilization, the road signs pointed to Mexicali, but they never entered the city. Nick could see a large body of water from his window, reflecting the moon and stars. He had always been more of a city and beach person, but over the course of the past weeks he had learned to appreciate the desert. Not quite the dry heat that had almost killed him a couple of times, not the cactus that poisoned him, but the scenery, the view. It was different from before, a background suited for the changing world the way he experienced it. And yet, beautiful. The dark night sky melted into the even darker ground, the sea of stars seemed endless, without any skyscrapers blocking his view.

"Halfway home," Daniel mumbled. He was barely understandable, but Nick figured what he had said. So their destination was Los Angeles - for the time being and with obvious detours. Daniel pulled over at a small hotel and unlocked the doors. He nodded at Nick and left the car to gather his supplies from the trunk. Nick hopped out and took a deep breath of the cool air. Nights in the desert were surprisingly chilly, especially now that it was near winter.

The hotel was quiet. Two infected were locked in a hallway on the first floor, but Nick and Daniel could see them through a glass door in the shine of their flashlight and they just went up to the second floor instead. They opened a door that wasn't locked and found the twin bed room empty. Without talking, Daniel put his bag on the first bed. He took out a can of food and tossed it at Nick's bed. He himself did not eat, he just untied his shoes, took off his jacket and lay down to rest. Nick didn't touch his food either, his mind was too busy. He wished they had narcotics, but he knew they hadn't because otherwise Daniel would have taken some. Sleeplessly, Nick stared at the ceiling. Daniel's breath seemed even, but Nick would have been surprised to find the old man sleeping. His wounds had to hurt like hell. _Serves you right,_ Nick thought to himself. 

The next day they did not leave the room. Daniel's condition had worsened, his face was swollen now and he had trouble breathing. He just lay there, obviously cursing in Spanish, but Nick couldn't understand him anymore at all. They had no electricity, so they had no ice, and when Nick wanted to leave to search for medicine, Daniel suddenly sat up and pointed his gun at him, shaking his head.  
So that was his punishment for being an asshole the day before. _Stuck in a room with a dying old man._

Luckily Nick found a notepad and pen in one of the nightstands, or else he would have ran amok, risk Daniel shooting him. He tore out the used pages and started over. _Dear diary..._  
He didn't know what to write. He wasn't used to it. And then he let the pen sink, painfully reminded of his dead friend by the simple act of taking notes. When he wrote again, he turned his back to Daniel, so he could not see the one or two tears he shed. _I didn't wear a watch to stop the time. You did not turn anyway. They don't turn when we hit them in the head. They just die._

 _Unless they are called Daniel Salazar, then they refuse to do us that favor._ He did not write the last part, even if just in fear that Daniel would read it later. He quickly returned his focus to his dead friend. _You wanted to know what happens. I don't know. But I hope it's peaceful and painless, like a really good trip. You said you were tired. I know you were in pain. It's over now, rest in peace._

Five days passed. Nick lay awake the night again. Daniel's rattling breath was calmer now than the first nights. He had a little fever one day, but the temperature went down again and the swelling got a little better. Finally he could sleep. Nick turned his head and his eyes fell on the knife on Daniel's nightstand, reflecting the moonlight.

He didn't know when he got up from his bed and did not remember how he crossed the room. He was standing at the crossroads, metaphorically. There were a lot of good reasons to take one or the other way. He needed Daniel to drive and bring him to their destination. But did they even have any destination? Nick had to admit he himself had none. Any place far away from his mother was good. Even better if there was some heroin to bring him a peaceful night or two before he would leave this world, golden shot in his arm. A big city. A skyscraper if there still was one standing, so he could lie down on the rooftop to watch the stars, which shone so bright and beautiful now that the streetlights were gone.  
Daniel would not get him there. They were heading for Los Angeles, but it was unlikely that Daniel would enter the city. He was driving in circles in the wilderness, as far as Nick knew. _Might as well end it here,_ he thought, before the man died from exhaustion miles away from the next motel. And he deserved it. He had it coming, he was a killer, willing to take any life in revenge, with no regrets.

Nick swallowed as he realized his reasoning was the same as his mother's back at the dam. His hands got moist from sweat thinking back to the horrible moment down inside the building. "No," he whispered. His vision blurred. He desperately tried to find a reason why Daniel deserved it more than Troy. Again the memories came up. Troy's twisted reasoning for killing people. But there was good in him. He had saved his life. Just like Daniel had saved his life as well. Tears ran down his face, were soaked up by strands of his hair. He put a hand over his eyes, trying to keep himself from crying like a child.

In his memories, Troy looked at him with his big blue eyes, sad and tired, asking him to end his life. "No," Nick said again, but no sound left his lips this time, his throat clenched too tightly. Troy should have lived. There was good in him, there really was. _It's in his eyes,_ Nick thought. And in the aching heart of the friend he left behind alive and lonely.  
That was the difference. There was no one left to mourn for Daniel. All his friends were dead, his family was dead. And despite his mercy towards him, Nick still didn't like him.

Nick allowed himself to calm down for a moment. He took a few deep breaths and then looked at the older man again. Daniel's chest still rose calmly and steadily, with no sign of him being awake. _One of us is going now,_ Nick thought. Chances were that this was another suicide mission. If Daniel would wake up, Nick would die as soon as he reached for the knife.

But he didn't. Nick was standing next to the other man's bed and there was no reaction from him. The knife weighted heavy in his hand. It was all different from killing Jeremiah. Now it would leave a sour taste. A life taken for the wrong reasons. Once again Nick pondered his options. His grip around the knife handle tightened. Just one step. _It's always just one step._

Nick reached the door. It was a really short distance, but he felt like it had taken him minutes, hours even. His shirt stuck to his body, drained in sweat. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. The smell of the other man's blood still in his nose, the knife still in his hand, he tried to calm down and listen. Still the same steady breath. With a sweaty, shaking hand Nick turned the doorknob and left the room. 

Nobody would die tonight.

_I wish this one life spared could bring back another one taken too soon._


	4. The Doctor and the Girl

**The Doctor and the Girl**

The voices were back, along with the white lights that shone through his closed eyes. He did not realize it at first, but he was drifting slowly, gradually from a state of unconsciousness back into the sensual world. He could not say how many times he had woken up before, with eyes closed, but aware of his rattling breath and the salty taste in his throat. He felt no pain, quite numb all over, just his head was pulsating, distantly.

Now the time had come. Either death refused to take him or he already was dead - _undead maybe_ \- he had to know. He forced his eyes open. 

At first it did not hurt too much. He looked down the foot end of his bed and tried to focus on the people in the room, standing by the door. One was dressed in white, a doctor possibly, which explained the bright light and white walls. The other one was a tall woman, hair in a tight ponytail. She was discussing something eagerly with the doctor, hissing at him angrily, but as he was drifting forth and back into consciousness, he could not follow the conversation.  
Then he tried to roll his eyes up, taking a look at the room. _What a mistake!_ The pain hit him like a stroke, the room swirled around, toppled over, and he threw up water. He coughed and tried to move his arms, but he couldn't. He could not tell apart top from bottom anymore either, and he was panicking about suffocating. The others hurried towards him, freed his arms from the restrictions. He could feel being turned around, wherever _around_ was. Strong, dark arms held him, and he just looked down to the floor, slowly gaining back his sense of orientation.

"You said he would be alright!" The woman yelled at the doctor, while she still held him. Her voice rang in his ear, but it sounded strangely two-dimensional. When she talked again he noticed that it was because one of his ears had gone deaf. "You said his brain was not damaged. Now look at him!"  
The doctor did not reply for a while, he just examined his patient, looked into his eyes, ears, nose. "The brain itself works well," he then explained calmly. "But the nerves on his left side of face were damaged badly. And some CSF is leaking, but it will stop again soon."  
"CSF?" the woman asked impatiently. "Cerebrospinal fluid," the doctor answered. "The fluid that surrounds the brain." The way he said it, it sounded all casual. As if he had done and seen all this before. He then examined the eyes once more. "His brain did not swell again. He will get better, he will make it, Luciana. Give him some time to heal."

The woman huffed. "How long until he talks?" she asked, rage in her eyes, as she let go of the young man's body and got up again. She took some paper towels and tossed them on the floor. The doctor seemed to watch her clean up the mess, because he took his time to answer. "Depends. Right now it will hurt him too much."

The young man tried to open his mouth, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. But the doctor was right, moving his jaw hurt like hell, and his voice was so raspy he started to cough. Even just the thought of the salty taste being brain liquid made him feel sick again. How was he even still alive? He was sure he had drowned. There were explosives. There was... his mind drifted, he just listened to the others talking some more. They were standing closer to the door now, their voices lower.

"We have to talk." The words were followed by a few moments of silence, one of them inhaled sharply, it must have been the woman. "He has gained consciousness, but there may be complications during recovery. What does he mean to you, is he your boyfriend?"  
She snorted. "No. This _hijo de puta_ may have _killed_ my boyfriend."  
Silence. The young man on the bed swallowed and suppressed another cough. She did not seem familiar at first, but images from his past appeared on his mind. Vaguely, nondescriptive. She may have been there, along with a feeling of disapproval. He saw his hand, pointing a gun to her head.

The doorknob was turned and one of them left. Then quiet steps approached his bed once again. He peeked through half closed eyes, looked at the floor so he could avoid the dizziness caused by his damaged nerves. Muddy boots, no white coat, he knew it must have been the girl. _Luciana._ He tried to move his mouth again. He was convinced they had given him painkillers, talking about brain damage and all that. And still his goddamn jaw hurt. He slowly raised his hand, carefully touched the left side of his face. His skin felt numb, his ear was deaf. He came closer to his eye and could feel the skin badly swollen, but also quite numb. When he tried to move on to his temple, Luciana slapped his fingers away. "No touching the wound," she commanded.

"How long?" he finally brought out through half closed lips. "How long _what_?" she asked back. She sounded angry and annoyed. "Hospital," he whispered.  
There was weight added to the side of his bed when she sat down, her knees and feet in his view. "I found you one week ago, when the dam _voló_... exploded. I heard about it from the people in my village and went there to..." She stopped mid-sentence. Something about it made her fidgety. She got up and walked towards the window. "I knew Nick was there the moment I heard about it," she continued. "Some _drugged gringo_ exploded the dam. But I could not find him. I found _you_."  
He could see her turn around. "What brought _you_ to México? Run out of people to kill?"

"I didn't," he said quickly in his defense, even though he could not remember a thing. He tried to remember crossing the border, but he couldn't. He did remember an abandoned border control point. He had memories showing him holding a rifle, hidden behind car wrecks, shooting while using illegal immigrants as targets. She definitely had a point, accusing him of killing people.

He could remember the dam, but he could not date the memories. He could not remember what happened, much less who caused the detonation, even though his mind offered pictures of him placing explosives. "I didn't," he repeated quietly. Then he repeated his question she didn't answer. "How long...?" She took a deep breath and let out an annoyed sigh. "It took me two days to bring you here. This is day five at the hospital and the first day you woke up. Doctor Abadi said you will stay in bed for another week at least." She returned to the side of his bed. "Don't get me wrong, Troy. _I don't do it for you._ You have to remember and tell me where Nick is."

The young man rose his head. "Troy," he repeated. "'that my name?" His gaze trailed off as if he was lost in thoughts. "I remember the sound."  
It was the last thing he said the day. When Luciana just snorted and didn't continue the conversation, visibly disappointed, he drifted back to sleep. 

The next days were a constant shift between sleep and consciousness. Troy was half-awake most of the time, not ready to move, not able to remember a lot of things. It was like some part of his memory was lost. He could remember what people looked like, but not their names. And he had trouble to remember new names, apparently, not being able to recall the doctor's name. He also asked Luciana who she was twice, before finally remembering her.

The worst was not being able to leave the bed. Luciana had to assist him with everything - eating and drinking, washing his face, changing the bandages. He had an IV in his arm, and Luciana was his nurse, who changed the bags, added the pain killers in gradually smaller doses, and disinfected his skin around the needle. On his second day of being awake he had to ask her to bring a bedpan and despite the loss of memory, he was sure it was the most humiliating moment in his life. Thankfully she never mentioned it, preserved his dignity, even in all of her usual roughness.

His sense of orientation got better again. Moving his eyes up still hurt, and according to the doctor it would for a couple weeks. But at least he did not get sick anymore. It was the first time he had seen the doctor, his face rather than just his coat. Doctor Abadi was an Arab guy in his 30s or 40s - slender, with neatly trimmed hair and thin framed glasses. And it made Troy furious. "Hey Luciana," he called her over, when they were alone in the room, while she prepared some instant potato soup for his dinner. Oh how much he hated that soup already - but there was no way he could use his jaw to bite. "You serious? You're letting a terrorist care for my health?"  
She stopped whatever it was she was doing and turned around to face him. "This _terrorist_ -" she spat the word back into Troy's face, obviously disgusted by the things he said - "fixed your _brain_."

As furious as she seemed at first, as disappointed she seemed the next moment. "He said your personality could change. There goes my hope," she said in a dry tone. For a moment Troy was sorry for saying what he said. In this post-apocalyptic world, there were no nations left to fight over. He could have picked better words, could have said it in a calmer voice. Could have been thankful. He sensed that she was close to give up on him, and somehow - all past aggressions aside - it hurt.

She let out a heavy sigh, put the soup on his nightstand, not proceeding to feed him right now. Instead she sat down on his bed, and looked at him with a serious expression. "Okay, be honest. Can you remember Nick?"

His whole past was a blurred mess of pictures and emotions, scattered with no sense of chronology, other than a vague feeling for his own age at the time. He had trouble to sort things back into order. He knew that she was looking for her boyfriend, but he had to search his mind for any points of reference, any anchors, memories he could connect already. What made it even harder was the lack of words. Everything he remembered was nondescriptive. He didn't understand the reasons for things that happened, he didn't remember whether he reflected upon situations, and if so, in which ways. He remembered pointing a gun to Luciana's head, and there was a boy who pointed a gun at him in turn. But he had forgotten what they said. From her behavior, her words nowadays, their suppressed animosity, he drew the conclusion that they had been enemies. But had they really?

The more he tried to remember, the less Troy understood. He had seen that boy with Luciana. He was sure that he was the missing boyfriend she was searching for. But he also remembered being alone with him. He could remember times without her. How Nick sat on top of him, laughing. How they were sitting next to each other in a broken helicopter, with one last bullet left. Tight hugs in midst of a herd of the undead. Warm fuzzy feelings when the boy smiled.  
Well, this was awkward now.

"I remember him," Troy whispered. "Nicky. He... your boyfriend, I guess."


	5. His Last Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is done! This is one of the longest chapter of the whole story. I wanted some things to happen and soon my plot got out of hand. Anyway! This is going to be dark. Please consider all tags possible (trigger) warnings for this particular chapter. Nick acts absolutely stupid in here. And I'm going to break your heart.  
> For now. If you like to listen to whatever I listened while writing, please turn on Led Zeppelin's Going to California or Green Day's Boulevard of Broken Dreams ♥

**His Last Day**

He could hear the engine of the car long before it came close. There was no place to hide, no path to go to leave the street. They would see him in the desert, so he could as well keep walking on the street. He just hoped they would either be good people, or at least realize he had no supplies they could take. He did look up and behind to check if it was Daniel's car, but it wasn't.

Once the car reached him, it came to a halt. Nick could hear a window let down, but he didn't turn his head. "Blood stained shirt, messy hair, walking through the desert without even a backpack, I knew it was you," a familiar voice said in an amused tone. "Nick!" another voice interrupted him. "Get into the car!"  
He didn't need to look up to recognize Victor Strand and Madison.  
Again there was no way out. Any way would just have lead him further into the desert. He knew he was walking west, but that was about all he knew. And they, too, were heading west apparently. With a heavy sigh, Nick opened the back door and climbed in.

"Where is Alicia?" he asked. The last time he saw them, Alicia was with them. He knew they got separated, but to find them out here, all the way back north without her surprised him. He didn't get an answer and his heart stung with fear - did she drown? Was he at fault? But then he remembered that his mother also would not tell him if she refused to travel with her, that her expression was still way too soft for such a tragedy. Alicia was likely on her own.

Nick had another question. "How did you find me?"  
His mother frowned, it was Victor who answered. "We did not expect to find you, as glad as I am that we did." He started driving westwards, a kind smile forming at the corners of his mouth.  
"You needed to get out of Tijuana," Nick concluded. "Out of Mexico," Victor added. He also had a question for Nick: "How did you get here? I take it you didn't walk all the way from the dam."

"I was with Daniel." Now it was on Victor to frown. "What happened?"  
"I put a knife into his head. He was a murderer, ready to take even more lives, for shallow reasons such as revenge. He had it coming. _I did it for you._ " Nick spat the words into the direction of his mother, not trying to hide the fact that he was exaggerating, lying even - just to draw a parallel and make a point. He knew chances were dim, but he hoped for some kind of reaction from her. Worries maybe, protest. Anger directed at him for this heated provocation. But she failed his expectations. She only said one word: " _Good._ "

Nick shook his head in disbelief. Once again, he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. His voice was hoarse when he continued speaking. _"It should have been you!"_ he almost yelled. Then he decided to be honest. "Nobody died the night. I did what you couldn't - you know - spared his life."  
No reaction. He tried to see her expression in the rear view mirror, but she still showed her usual frown. If anything, he thought he could see traces of disappointment. Nick gave up, he turned his head away and took a look at the landscape. Their argument was suffocated in silence.

They soon reached LA, it was a two or three hour ride. Empty streets were one of the perks of the apocalypse, but that changed immediately, as they entered the greater metropolitan area - cars and tanks blocked the streets here. The city lay before them, and it looked like a battlefield. Some quarters were bombed severely, the dark burned ruins of the once tall buildings stood in contrast to the clear winter sky. The scenery had its very own, cruel beauty. 

They had to leave the car behind. Strand and Madison had some supplies stored in the trunk, mostly bottles full of water, which they took out and sorted into three sturdy bags. "Do you have a gun?" Madison asked her son, eyeing his knife with suspicion. She gave him hers, and took the larger shotgun for herself. "We'll go and search for more tomorrow," she stated bluntly.  
They stayed at a hotel the night. Nick thought it was quite silly that they still searched for hotels, while almost all homes were empty. They could have stayed anywhere, it would not matter. At least this way they could take separate bedrooms - after all that had happened, Nick preferred to stay alone.

The next day they continued their way through the city. It was pretty clear where Madison was wanting to go, and why. She had not talked much, but every train station they came across, every street sign told Nick they were heading home. She probably was hoping to find anything that once belonged to Travis. Or maybe she wanted to stay at a place Alicia would find, if she decided to return. Whenever they were facing a herd of the dead, Madison decided to take a turn, walk a little diversion. They avoided danger, avoided to kill. And yet - they spent all day on the streets, only stopping to take a rest, eat a small meal. 

The next evening, the sun was just about to sink, Madison suddenly turned to Nick and smiled - a soft, warm smile. "We're going home," she told him. He huffed. "I know."  
A long pause followed, before she talked to him again. "So this year finally comes to an end."  
Nick had not realized how much time had passed. Leaving California on Strand's yacht felt like just a week ago. The ranch felt like yesterday. What Madison said startled him. Did they really miss Christmas without even mentioning it? Sure, the times had changed. Giving presents, having an opulent dinner together, all that was gone. Nick tried to calculate how many days had passed, but he failed. For all he knew his mother might have killed his best friend on Christmas Eve - and this thought stung in his heart.  
"What day is it?" he finally asked her. "December 30," she answered with an almost monotone voice. "We can celebrate tomorrow. Have a dinner, welcome the year together at midnight. Have a new start. What do you think?"  
Nick had to place his hand on one of the nearby walls, because he felt lightheaded all of a sudden. He didn't know why, but what his mother said triggered a panic attack. He could barely suppress it, could barely keep standing on his shaky legs. He nodded, absent-mindedly.  
_Have a new start. You have yours. I have mine._

That night, when Strand and Madison were asleep, Nick sneaked into their rooms and took their weapons. He would need something to trade, and if Madison avoided fights at all cost - well then she didn't need a shotgun. Back in his room he sorted the guns and supplies into a backpack. He made sure to take enough water, food was not as important. For the things he planned he didn't need much food.  
He tip-toed out of the building, when he heard a rough but kind voice behind him. "Leaving already?"  
Nick turned around, eyes big, lips twitching. "Just a supply run," he lied.  
"So close to midnight?" Victor asked, and came a little closer. Nick shrugged. The taller man reached out and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's your choice and it's allright." He sent him a smile, but it looked sad and bitter. Nick was about to turn away and leave the man standing, when Victor spoke again. "Let me have _one_ gun. Any will do." A shudder ran down Nick's spine. _How did he know?_  
"I won't tell your mother. Not tonight. I just want a chance to survive."

He let Victor have his gun. He hoped he wouldn't use it to kill himself, but then decided Victor wasn't the type for it. He would much rather raid the hotel bar and spend the night with a glass of liquor, or two, or more. Nick left the building and inhaled the fresh air of the night. It felt good to leave them behind once more. _For the last time._ He did not plan to stay alive long enough to meet them ever again.

The first thing he did was searching for a metro station, a street sign, any landmark. He needed to know where he was. A smile flashed over his lips when he realized he was somewhere in Vernon already - close enough to the city centre that he could reach his destination by noon. Now all he needed was a little more trade currency, and he could get his drugs.

He found a small store nearby which still had snacks left. When he moved through the space between the shelves, suddenly he heard the grunts of a lurker from the door. He turned around and saw her trapped between some boxes, long messy curls falling loosely over her shoulders. Nick just smiled slightly, and kept stuffing chocolates and protein bars into his backpack. When he decided he had enough, he approached the lurker. He stood in front of her, just barely out of reach, and looked at her hands stretching out for him. Nick took out his knife, but he didn't use it yet. Instead he moved his left hand up and laced his fingers with the hand of the zombie. It was cold and the skin felt somewhat pasty, not at all like the hand of a living human. And still this thing had been human once. Was maybe the cashier of this little place. Had maybe sold her chocolates to school kids from the quarter. Now she just grunted. Nick gave her arm a quick pull and thrust his knife into her skull in the same movement, before her mouth could get anywhere close his arm. He could feel her fingers relaxing around his. "Goodbye," he whispered.

He placed her on the floor and cut open her torso. He smeared the viscous liquid all over his face and arms, even on his legs and into his hair. He had not used his blood camouflage in a while - it had been what, almost two weeks since the bazar? There was no need to cover himself up in the desert, if he didn't plan to go with a herd. Now was different. He was planning to walk across the whole damn city. 

The thing is, if you want the best stuff, you do not search in the clubs and bars. Not even in Hollywood, where you would think they can afford the best. You search for the dealers, those who cut it. He knew of someone in Industry, who operated a small warehouse. Nick had never dealt with him directly - Calvin had just mentioned him once or twice - and he wasn't sure if that particular dealer was still alive, but he wanted the purest he could get in this shithole of a city.

Nick went eastwards, crossed the dry bed of the Los Angeles River that quietly reminded him that the desert was nearby, both in a temporal and local sense. Then through Commerce, where he tried to stick to the main streets, so he would not get lost between the houses. It was a six hour walk to the suburb of Industry. When Nick reached a trailer park, he knew he was close. An entire town full of industrial buildings and depots lay before him. 

Almost the whole afternoon Nick tried to find the warehouse in question. Calvin had told him smaller details, but never gave him the address. _That asshole. He didn't want me to find it after all,_ Nick thought, bitterly reminded of Calvin's attempt to kill him.  
And then he found it. He recognized the fake business logo Calvin had told him about. He knocked at the door lazily. He was almost sure that the dealer had died, or been robbed. What he dealt with must have been worth a lot at the apocalypse. Much to his surprise the door opened. A tall Hispanic guy looked at him with a grumpy expression. He did not say a word.  
Nick got nervous. He had relied on Calvin to provide him most of the time, he didn't even know how to start the conversation now. "Leonardo?" he asked, hesitantly. The man nodded and grunted. So he was alive. "Do you still sell some... dreamless sleep?" Now the man smiled and shook his head. "I'm dealing with heroin. You want some."

Nick felt dumbfounded, but it made sense to be open about it now. No more police. No more laws. "Well then... give me some of the purest you have. And also what I need to prepare it." Nick smiled as well now, and took down his backpack. He freed the shotgun from the zipper and reached it up to the man - who checked the ammo - followed by his pistol. Then he made neat little stacks of the snacks he had brought with him. "This should be more than enough."  
And it was. Leonardo vanished in the back of the room for a short moment, and returned with two tiny plastic bags, a small bottle of powdered ascorbic acid, candle and lighter, and some fresh fixing tools. "Two quarters. Take care man," he mumbled. Then he shook his head again.  
"'you hadn't talked I'd thought you'd be one of the dead."  
Nick stowed away what he got and gave the man one last smile, one of his flirty smiles he used for people he considered part of his world. When he turned around, he could hear the door close behind him.

It must have been early in the evening. _December 31,_ Nick reminded himself. He still had some way to go, and his legs started hurting already, but he knew that would get better soon.  
He was freezing a little, as he went westwards. He rubbed his arms, regretted wearing just his short sleeve shirt. Last night he had been so angry and sad that he didn't realize how cold it really was. The logical solution for this problem would have been to look for a jacket in any of the houses he walked past. But he didn't - instead he followed the Interstate 10.  
After roughly four hours had passed, he found himself an underpass, right below the highway. He sat down and prepared his first shot, a small dose, just enough to get high. 

His eyes fluttered and fell shut. A wide smile appeared on his lips - yes this was good, was pure. Much better than what Cal had given him, _that bastard._ Nick leaned back against the concrete wall, not able to get up just now. He didn't feel cold anymore, his legs didn't hurt anymore. He just felt good. Life was perfect for a moment. _Happy New Year,_ he thought, and chuckled quietly.

He felt like he must have passed out for a moment, as he lay there in the darkness. He got up again and started walking, still feeling much better than the past two weeks. _Might as well go home,_ he thought. It was just a good two hour walk back to the place he used to live. He hoped he would get there before his mom. But as he reached the place, he knew he didn't need to worry. The complete safe zone they had stayed in at the beginning of the apocalypse was scorched earth. His home was gone, just a ruin.  
Nick tried to find something in the debris. Nothing in particular, just anything that reminded him of his dad, of the happy little family he never really had. But it was useless. He would probably have more luck at the old church.

He went down to Chinatown, finding a quiet corner to get his second fix at noon. He just sat there for a moment and imagined the good smell of the nearby restaurants, the melodic chatter of the people in the shops. Now the place was just sad and empty. Nick got up and went down the street, heading downtown. He didn't need to kill any walkers with his blood camouflage still intact, but he did it anyway - because it was fun while he was high. 

His plan had been to find a tall building, and he found one he liked by the late afternoon. Without electricity, he had to walk up all twenty-something floors of the building. He had to take breaks, he wasn't in the best condition anymore, he really needed some rest.  
Finally he was up there, on the roof top of the building, through an emergency exit, on a landing spot meant for helicopters. He took out his drugs, looking at the dwindling amount of powder he had left. _Two more days at this rate,_ he thought.

The stars were dancing, slowly, quietly, up in the night sky. Nick had a smile on his lips, as he lay there, arms stretched out. He tried to make out star signs and when he couldn't remember any others, he simply made up some more. _That's a gun. And that there looks like a G - that's Gloria._ Suddenly he laughed out loud, rolled on the floor like he had made a really funny joke. A moment later he sobbed. _"Glo... poor Glo."_  
He tried to calm himself down again, quite successfully thanks to the effect of the drugs. "At least she didn't suffer," he mumbled. That was completely wrong, he knew she had suffered all her life before. But he was already drifting into sleep, and his thoughts felt dull and far from his mind. "At least they all didn't suffer," he added, with closed eyes, thinking of Gloria and Calvin and Troy.

Nick woke up feeling cold and hungover. He was sick and the air was humid all of a sudden, so the wind crept into his clothes with ease. He had to prepare his first fix in the staircase, just so he was able to walk down all the stairs and find a new place.  
He ended up at the old abandoned church. He vaguely remembered missing Gloria last night and it felt calming to be back at the place she died. He also found some of the books his father had given to him, and he pocketed one he had not read yet. The weather was so bad that he simply stayed in the building, at the same spot he lay all the time back in the day. This way he could imagine the apocalypse never happened. This time he took smaller doses of his drug, trying to just keep his body working well enough to survive a little longer.  
When he woke up again the next day he had just one of the little bags left and he tried to make a decision that he thought was overdue.

Today was the day, his last day. He had planned it through: when he was sober he had no reason to be alive anymore. Everyone he loved had either died, left him or turned into monsters. Two weeks ago he had tried to kill himself already, with a blast, quite literally. Nothing had changed. _If only Troy was still alive,_ they would at least have fun while feeling meaningless and lost. His friend's death was the last straw, something had snapped inside of Nicks mind and he had lost his will to survive. Only the drugs numbed his thoughts, let him feel at peace with the whole apocalypse. But staying on H was not an option, he would soon run out of things to trade, and he knew being high all the time would not necessarily make him more productive, nor happy in the long run. He would end it now, while it still felt good, and the day was just perfect: the sky was amazingly clear, compared to the day before. He felt okay - not at his best, but definitely not at his worst condition. It was still early in the morning, he could spend his last day any way he wanted, and end it any time he wanted, which gave him a nice feeling of control over his life, something he had been lacking for years.

He left the abandoned church, breathed in the amazingly fresh air. Now that he would leave, the world did not seem so bad anymore. _One last day of fun,_ he thought. _What to do?_  
He did not take long to figure where to go - north west where the rich people lived. He could enter any house he wanted, no matter which. A penthouse would be great, he decided.

He walked along the Sunset Boulevard and felt like a star. With swift moves he ended a roamers life, stuck his knife right into its skull, cut open its throat and used its blood to paint his face and body. A grin appeared on his face as he spotted a store selling fashion accessories and he picked a bunch of necklaces, bracelets and a flower crown to decorate his blood-stained self. When he continued his way down the street the walkers would hear him - he would make sure they did, shaking his wrists - but as they were approaching him they would only smell dead blood and lose interest, and they followed the rattle of the jewelry, building a small herd with him as their lead. _I'm famous and the crowd is following each and every of my steps,_ he thought, amused.

By noon he had reached another neighborhood, he vaguely remembered leaving his herd, going back south for a bit - taking another small fix - it didn't matter. He was aiming for the taller buildings, looking for any area that was not bombed too badly. Eventually he found it, the perfect penthouse - all the way in Westwood on the Ashton Avenue - and he did not mind the endless stairs up there, nor the lurkers waiting for him behind a corner. Without any need to, he used the chance to refresh his bloody makeup.  
The place was exceeding his expectations. Whoever lived there had had a good taste, the furniture looked like it came straight from a catalogue - a generous black leather sofa, huge flat screen TV, and the open kitchen looked as clean as new. Nick moved on to a small hallway, found the bathroom and stared in awe, at the elegant and very luxurious interior. Black marble met sand colored stone tiles, which had a golden glitter effect. The plants had seen better days, but the remaining green leaves added a nice contrast to the black and gold. He moved on to the next room, a bedroom, considerably more feminine than the rest of the apartment, decorated in ruffled curtains and rich warm colors, all red, orange and purple. Back to the living room and kitchen. Nick opened the cupboards and he whistled when he found one of the shelves filled with several bottles of the best champagne. "Hit the jackpot," he said with a quiet, low voice. 

A glass of champagne in one hand, the other hand on the railing of the generous roof terrace, Nick looked down onto the streets. He spotted some roamers and raised his glass in a toast to them. "This is a dead man's world and soon I'm joining you down there," he said and it felt romantic, exciting, but also a little sad. _Lonely, somehow._

But would there be anything he'd miss? _Actually, one thing._ He went back into the bedroom, dropping his glass on the way, let it crush on the stone tiles, not caring about the shards. One of his fingers trailed over the surface of a big standing mirror and left a trail of half-dried blood. Nick smiled at his reflection, blood in his face, on his hair, dripping from the fancy flower crown, and all over his clothes. He let his hands wander down his body, in slow, seducing movements, until they met the buckle of his belt, playing with it rather than just opening it. This was the dirtiest, messiest he had ever felt, in the nicest bedroom he had ever seen. It turned him on quite much, the contrast was thrilling. _One last time._

He watched himself in the mirror, half undressed, then stumbled backwards, let his back drop on the bed deliberately, his shoulders hitting the soft mattress, so that the satin sheets stuck to his sweaty skin. His free hand landed on a velvet cushion, his arm scratched over an appliqué of gold thread. He had never cared much about fabrics before, but this bed right now was a firework of sensations. He could hear his own panting, turning into low moans. He closed his eyes and tried to think of someone, anyone, who would join him on this huge bed, someone who'd enjoy the messy sex, who'd help him reach his climax. A sad smile rushed over his lips as he realized the one person he could imagine was a tall boy with blue eyes and curly hair. He thought of his lips near his ear, soft sighs, mumbling his name, with a slightly shaky voice. He had been so innocent behind his layers of false cruelty. When he closed his eyes, Nick could feel how Troy's body would shiver, tremble, press down on his. He could feel his stubble scratch on his jaw line. How he would hold him...

Nick was still panting, as he lay there, sprawled out like a starfish. It had been his best alone time in a while, but also his saddest. Troy, if he was here, he would hold him. He would let him cry, let him ramble, let him complain, he would just stay close until he felt sober again. He would say his name, softly, with a teasing undertone. _Nick. Hey. Nick. Nicky!_ He would definitely not let him do what he planned to do. 

But Troy was dead.  
Just like everyone else Nick had ever loved.

He went through the cabinets in the study, a room he had not entered before. He knew he would find what he was searching, and with a victorious smirk he held up the bottle of finest Caribbean rum. He would need it, just to make sure. But also for the fun of it, because he actually liked the taste.  
Nick had his first glass in the whirlpool of the dark, splendid bathroom, while he cleaned himself from the blood camouflage. He could only use so much water as had been stored in the pipes of the building, in the water boiler of the penthouse - and it was all cold - but he extended it with champagne and with the help of the rum he could imagine being here at better days, and linger in the luxury of it.

Wrapped in the softest bathrobe Nick had ever touched, he enjoyed his second glass of rum on the terrace. The sun was sinking already, reflecting beautifully in the small swimming pool, and he looked at the figures who moved in the streets. Still mostly roamers - but then he spotted two living people, moving amongst them, killing them off on their way through the streets. The taller one of them looked up, seemingly stretching his sore muscles. He stopped, and reached out for the other person. Nick could not hear what they said, although he could make out their voices, distantly.  
Now both of them looked up.

_Shit._

Nick stepped back and hurried to the sofa inside. He hoped they would not come looking for him. Well, if they did, he wanted to make sure he was gone. With shaky hands he lighted the candle. He prepared his spoon full of his last dose, almost twice of what he had taken the day before.

He could have sworn the people he had seen in the streets had been Troy and Luciana. He felt incredibly silly. It was wrong on so many levels, that he didn't even know how his mind came up with it. Troy was dead. Luciana gone, both in Mexico. When they had been alive, they had hated each other. And how likely would it be, that the two people Nick had cared most about since the start of the apocalypse would meet him here, in midst of LA, on the day he died?

He shook his head, even gave himself a slap into the face. _Can't be._

Oh how much that would have changed. He wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry, and when he filled the syringe he actually smiled while a tear rolled down his cheek. _Just imagine it would be true,_ he told himself. _Just imagine how happy you would be._  
He set the needle in place, let it slip into his vein and pressed the plunger. 

There was a rush, a warm sensation running through his whole body, like an orgasm just softer, further away... far in the distance. He drifted into unconsciousness within seconds, the smile and the tears still on his face.


	6. Los Angeles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did this thing... where you can see exactly where the boys are and which paths they took. Follow [this link](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1LaoZnLAF_4X_eXumchMHzoTiS7J4RNzC&usp=sharing) if you're curious. Sadly streetview is not enabled... some locations actually exist in the real world.
> 
> This chapter covers the same days as the last chapter, but from Troy's perspective.  
> The boys are both looking at the stars the same night.

**Los Angeles**

One morning, the sun had just started to rise, Troy stood up on his shaky legs. The previous days he had already asked Luciana to assist him to the bathroom, there was no way he would let her nurse him more than necessary. The first time he had moved his legs he had noticed he was wearing a cast around his ankle, much to his dismay. And with smaller doses of painkillers, his whole body was in slight but constant pain. He got up anyway.

Slowly he shuffled to the window. He had always just seen the sky from his bed, a nice blue winter sky. Now his hands reached for the windowsill to pull himself closer. He looked down at the streets, the buildings surrounding him, the parked cars. He had assumed he was still in Mexico, close to the dam which - according to Luciana - had exploded. But this was not Mexico. He had the nagging feeling of having seen this place before. The building across the street, the red bricks - he could remember having seen it on pictures. A letter sent by a friend from the city. He had left the ranch to attend college. Quite an overachiever, just like his brother. He could remember his face... "M... Mike," he mumbled. It was still hard for him to adjust his memories. And then suddenly some pieces fell together. "University of California. Los Angeles," he said to himself. "Why am I in Los Angeles?"

Troy turned around and left his room, he had to know if this was real. With slow steps he approached another window at the end of the hallway. He could not see much, only take glimpses of the city between the high buildings of the hospital and medical school. What he could see seemed endless, so many buildings, some smaller and some taller than this place. It was the largest city he had ever seen.

He was still standing by the window, staring at the streets in awe, when Luciana approached him with slow steps. "You're out of the bed," she figured. Troy was a little startled, but he could hide it well. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked her. She shrugged. "Rumor was that this hospital was still intact and had the best... _cerebro cirujano..._ specialist of the whole country."  
He turned around and gave her a smile. "That's nice of you."  
She shook her head. "A lot of zombies. Only emergency generators for energy. _Rascacielos..._ tall houses, some bombed, they will crumble any moment. This is not a good place."

Troy was a little amused by her pessimism. He rose a hand and placed it on her shoulder. "Thank you," he mumbled and pulled her into a soft embrace.  
If there was one thing Troy could do, then it was being gentle. Never had Luciana expected this when she first met him. She had thought he was a monster, a killer with no heart. But there was more to him. She had come to understand that not everything was all bad about this man. She had seen him at his worst - but she had also witnessed people at the _colonia_ willingly sacrificing others for their own good. She had seen gangs shooting children. Who was not a killer in this world? And Troy had this way about him that made others smile. His laughter was contagious, his touches so kind and cautious at times. No matter what had been and how wrong it was, as he stood here, weak and soft, friendly and grateful, she could not hate him anymore. She rose a hand, put it on the good side of his head and stroke through the curls of his hair. Troy closed his eyes and hummed quietly in response.

Then Luciana pulled away. Maybe a little too rough, maybe a little too sudden. She had caught herself having thoughts she would rather not have. Thoughts that would betray her past. She brushed them off.  
Troy opened his eyes again. "Luciana?" he quickly asked her, making sure she would listen. "Tell that t... the Arab guy -" She rolled her eyes. "Doctor Abadi." Troy nodded slowly. "Yes. Tell the doctor to take off my cast. I want to go out again. You said it, _a lot of zombies._ I need to get back in shape."  
She snorted, but did not disagree.

That evening, the doctor brought a little saw. Troy looked at it alarmed, but then watched calmly, as his cast was removed. "It's too soon," the doctor said. "But given the circumstances and dangers out there, I will apply some sturdy bandages instead. Do yourself a favor and don't strain the right leg. Don't run, don't jump, don't kick with it. Walk the stairs step by step, with your healthy leg first. Let Luciana assist you. It may not be atrophied yet, but the bone is weak."  
The young man let out a heavy sigh. Healing took forever, he was slowly losing his patience with himself. "Don't move too far away," the doctor added. "I still need to see your head every other day at least."  
Troy nodded. "Yes, sir." Content with the answer, the older man left the room.

After a while the door opened again and Luciana sneaked in. She crossed the room with a rare smile on her lips and sat down on Troy's bed. _"Qué pasa?"_ he asked her, one of the few bits of Spanish he knew. She unbuckled her belt and gave it to Troy. Now he could see the machete she had been wearing attached to it. "For you. _Feliz año nuevo_ \- Happy New Year."  
The young man was speechless. He touched his present almost as softly as he had held Luciana earlier the day. " _Feliz año... nuevo,_ " he repeated and put the blade aside. Then - on impulse - he leaned in and gave her a quick kiss. "Thank you."

Luciana almost jumped up. She looked at him startled. "No... don't," she muttered. Without any other word she left his room. He thought he could see her raise a hand to her lips. _Was it wrong?,_ he wondered. He had been sure quick kisses were considered a sign of appreciation between friends. Of course he would never have kissed Blake or Coop - he waged a quick smile as he realized he could remember their names - but he could vaguely remember kissing Nick on the head, that night at the _bazar,_ and Nick had not seemed to mind it. _Was it different?_ He lay awake, stretched out on his bed diagonally and watched the stars that appeared in his window.

The next day was humid and cold, the first grey day he had seen in a while, and Troy decided it would be a bad day to go out. Luciana didn't visit him once, so he gave boiling his own potato powder a try. It tasted even worse than when she made it. _The things you eat when you have no choice..._  
The rest of the day he tested moving with the machete in his hand. He accidentally hit the curtains and took the damage as proof the blade was sharp. _A nice weapon,_ he thought.  
He also thought of Nick again. The intimacy they shared. Troy was not sure what was friendship and what was beyond. Up to now he had always thought of Nick as his friend. His best friend, like a brother. But Luciana's reaction made him question if he had not passed the line with Nick as well... and would it matter? Quite obviously Nick had been okay with it. But then - what if they found him, would it be Luciana's right to be with him? How could it be, if he came after her... Troy shook his head slowly. _Bad thoughts._

It was amazing, how quickly Troy's memories came back. He could reconstruct the past months almost completely, apart from that one day at the dam. Some names were still missing, but he didn't try hard to remember them, as he knew those people were dead anyway. Sometimes he stumbled over complicated words, but it didn't bother him. Luciana never seemed to notice, she probably didn't know the words herself. For the things that happened recently, he started to note them down again. He made sure to read the notes twice in 30 minute intervals every evening, to train his short term memory. He was proud when he noticed his progress.

It was January third and Luciana showed up in his room again. They talked and she prepared another type of meal for him - apple sauce with cocoa powder. Troy had almost hugged and kissed her again for the bliss he felt when eating something so sweet and delicious, but he managed to contain himself. Instead he tried to pick up the conversation again. "You've been out. Best thing anyone ever brought from a supply run, the apple sauce."  
Luciana nodded. " _Sí._ I've been out. And you will go out today as well." Troy rose an eyebrow on the good side of his face. "Someone has entered the district today. I found some _cuerpos._ When I wanted to follow the... uh... tracks, a herd surprised me. We will wait for them to pass by. Then we go."

Troy was excited. He took a deep breath of fresh air when they finally left the building. How long had it been - two weeks? He needed to take some steps before he felt comfortable walking on his damaged legs. Luciana spotted a single walker down the street and hurried forwards. When Troy approached her, she was already wearing her camouflage and reached up with bloody hands into his face. He must have looked wild, with his bandaged head, messy hair and blood all over. 

They hurried down the street as fast as Troy could without worsening his pain. When they reached the Wilshire Boulevard, they could see some remnants of the herd Luciana had talked about. "Ready for some combat training?" she asked him in a quiet voice.  
Luciana was the first to pull out her knife, she started to move faster, stabbed two of the undead on her way to the street corner, then turned around and killed one more. She looked at Troy, with her stern expression, not saying a word, and yet communicating that she wanted to see him fight.  
Troy inhaled sharply, then grabbed his machete and started his way through the group of infected. His eye movement was still a little slower than usual, and he could not rely on his sense of hearing - when he went deaf on one ear he had lost his depth perception of sound. But the walkers were sluggish and their movements were predictable. Troy tried to plan ahead and then just let his movements follow his thoughts. One hit, two hits, three... and then suddenly his short-term memory failed him. He evaded an arm, but staggered a little, and Luciana killed his last opponent for him.  
"Three - it's a good start," she said encouragingly. But Troy just stared, disappointed with himself. He used to be good at this, _so very good._  
Then he had his chance. A roamer appeared behind Luciana. He dashed forwards and killed it in a quick move. "Four," he said nonchalantly and flashed a smile.

They entered Ashton Avenue, each of them dealing with single walkers on the street. "Feels good to kill again," Troy said to himself. Luciana either didn't hear him or pretended not hearing him to avoid getting in an argument. He smiled again, took a deep breath of the fresh winter air and tilted his head back to soak up the sun.  
He paused. There was a figure on a nearby rooftop, someone leant on the railing, watching them. It couldn't be a walker - that person just kept watching quietly, not moving.  
"Hey Luciana," he mumbled, reaching out to touch her arm softly. "Someone's up there."

She looked up as well. "Looks like he's drinking and watching us," she said squinting at him. Then she paused. "Troy?" she asked, voice a little shaky. "That can't be Nick, can he?"  
What she said made Troy's heart jump. He looked up again but the person on the roof was gone. With brisk steps he crossed the street and kicked the door open, not caring about the strain he put on his healing leg. He could endure the pain. Luciana followed him just as swiftly.  
"What if he is not?" she asked, slightly out of breath from running up behind him. "Don't care," Troy mumbled, looking at the dead lurkers on the stairs. They had been stabbed in the head, but also their throats sliced open, and blood smeared everywhere. "How many people you know do that," he added and pointed at the scenery.  
Nevertheless he held his machete firmly in his right hand. They couldn't be sure. Both of them took position beside the door to the penthouse. Luciana was the one who knocked - no reaction from the inside. No sound they could hear. "Kick it in," Troy ordered and the girl complied. Luciana stumbled into the room, Troy closing in on her.

The first thing he noticed was the smell of alcohol in the room. He hated the smell, it stood out no matter where. He spotted a broken glass on the floor and open bottles on the kitchen island. Slowly - carefully - with his weapon ready to fight, he approached the sofa.  
Luciana let out a small whimper and pressed both her hands on her face. There he lay. Dressed in nothing but a bathrobe and a damaged flower crown, dried blood in his hair, and a needle in his arm. He didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe anymore. His face looked so peaceful, and yet so sad. "Nicky," Troy said, his voice breaking. He could see the spoon on the table, the candle still burning. He had to suppress his tears, and also keep his lips from smiling - he had to fight off the hysteria that wanted to roll over him.

"Hold his hands," he told Luciana as soon as he could react again. But she didn't move. " _Estuvo vivo. Vimos_ \- from down there, he was alive!" She couldn't handle it.  
"He _is_ alive," Troy said sharply. He was not sure, but he refused to assume anything else. Nick killing himself just after seeing them walking down the street was unacceptable.

Luciana still did not react, even backed off - and Troy was hesitant to reanimate the boy without her help. He was talented at killing people but he had never managed to save anyone who was sick or injured. Beside his body refusing to act, he also was scared of the consequences. If Nick's immune system had been weakened before and he had not eaten for a couple of days, he would likely turn fast. He could wake up any moment and just bite him.  
He brushed off the thought. _Too soon._ He only had this one chance. With sweaty hands he felt for Nick's pulse. He couldn't feel it, and he hoped it was just because he did it incorrectly. He turned the boy to the side, made him lie on his back. Shaky fingers touched the syringe, pulled it out of Nick's arm, scratched his skin a bit. Troy bit his lips. Behind him he could hear Luciana leaving the room, the sound of her knife hitting the handrail of the stairs.

"Okay Nick, I'll do it, if you don't turn."  
He checked his eyes, pried them open. If he turned, if it was too late, he would see it. Dark smoke, then dull white mist - he had seen it a dozen times before. But Nicks eyes looked normal, just his pupils were tiny. "Here we go..."  
He pressed down on his naked chest, counting to thirty, then pressed his lips on Nick's and breathed for him. _Once. Twice. Repeat._

Eventually he gave up. He didn't know how much time had passed... he had given him respiration many times, started beating Nick's chest and still no reaction. Furious, he kicked the table over, pushed an armchair out of his way. He went to the kitchen and took the bottles, smashed them against the large windows. The shards rained down on the floor, and the smell of alcohol intensified, but he did not care anymore. Tears ran down his cheeks and he did not even notice. He pulled the cupboards open, just pulled out whatever was inside and threw it against the walls, the door, the windows, until the windows cracked and the rays of the sinking sun conjured a beautiful mosaic on the opposing wall. He stared at it. "I hate you Nick," he said quietly. Then he started screaming. "I hate you! Why don't you wake up? Why don't you turn?"  
He let himself sink down by the wall, sat on the floor, exhausted from the fit of anger. "If you don't wake up, why don't you turn," he mumbled, over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that Troy does not know how to apply first aid to someone with an overdose. He does some things wrong and just some things right. I just thought it would be unrealistic if he knew what to do.
> 
> Also - goodbye Luciana. She can't handle Nick like this. I wanted making her departure her own decision, even though I must say I contemplated killing her for the additional drama. She's going back south now, but we won't follow her there. We'll stay with Troy, heartbroken and upset as he is.


	7. Suicide Proof

**Suicide Proof**

Heavy warmth against his chest, soft curls tickling his chin. Then the weight shifted and a rough mouth caught his own dry, chapped lips. _Breathe. I have to breathe._  
He tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't see, just dancing lights and then, vertigo. His hands jerked up to his face, he could hear a dull voice - _Fuck..._  
There were strong arms turning him over, he could feel someone pet his back in slow circles, while his stomach got rid of the rum and champagne. Eventually he could only dry heave, and his sense of vision returned.  
The table was lying on its side, far towards the window. Scattered on the floor around the armchair were sheets of paper with hasty notes, mostly just numbers, calculations. He realized it was night and the only light source was a flashlight on the armchair. The candle, spoon and syringe lay in a pool of liquor and glass shards. The stench of the room made him retch more and he tried to get up to leave.

"Welcome back," a throaty voice greeted him. Nick barely dared to look up. He had heard this voice before. He didn't need to see his face, he recognized him when he spotted the watch around his wrist. The subtle line of blonde hair on his forearm, barely visible in the darkness of the room.  
He couldn't talk yet, but he tried to move his feet to the floor. He needed to get out, _just out of here._  
Troy's hands moved to his chest and helped him up. "Take it slow... let me help you."  
Nick could feel himself black out again when he was finally standing, his shoulders leaning against the strong chest of his tall friend.  
This could not be real. He must have been hallucinating. He would wake up again later, all alone. He felt stupid and dissatisfied for not being able to kill himself. He had been so sure the dose would be enough. Together they staggered out of the room to the staircase. 

Nick didn't remember how he managed to walk down the stairs, he just noticed he had left the building when the cool air of the winter night hit his bare chest. He stood there, naked, bathrobe hanging down his shoulders, fresh blood in his face, wondering how that happened, and where he was, until he felt Troy's warm presence from behind, and his hands pulling up the bathrobe. Troy reached around and tied the belt for him. "Don't leave me," was the only thing Nick said, then he closed his eyes again and leaned against him, to fall back into sleep.

He woke again when his back and shoulders hit the asphalt and he could hear a frustrated moan on his side. He opened his eyes and could see Troy lying on the street next to him, face contorted with pain. "Damn fucking leg," the man cursed. Nick forgot his own aching body for a moment. He stared at Troy's face, the blood stained bandages around his temples. Was this real, or just another trick of his mind? "Nick, you're awake..."  
Nick nodded slowly, not tearing his eyes away from his. Troy attempted to get up on his legs again, he stumbled a little, then looked down to his friend. "Get on my back," he commanded and reached him a hand to help him stand. Nick did as he was told, his own legs too shaky to walk. He could feel Troy walking with a limp, he almost fell again. The younger tried his best to stay awake so he could help balance his weight, even though his eyes would fall shut again after just a few steps.

Nick vaguely noticed that they entered a building. He could feel being placed down on a row of plastic seats, and he could hear Troy call an unfamiliar name. Then he dozed off again, breath weak and slow. He didn't notice moving on to another part of the building. He drifted back into consciousness facing bright light, and at least one unknown person was in the room. He could feel the sting of a needle pulled out of his vein. _"No naloxone,"_ he mumbled, but it was too late. He could feel how he came back to his senses, and it hurt, terribly. His stomach cramped, his skin burned. He started breathing faster, so much that he felt like he had just run back from the penthouse alone. Low whimpers escaped his lips.

Two people were talking in the room. He could only understand fragments. _Twenty minutes. Another dose. Keep an eye on him._ Nick had started dry heaving again, but nothing would come out. Then he felt some weight added to his bed. Troy's strong, warm hands found their way to his back again, and while every touch hurt, to know he was there calmed Nick a little.

Nick didn't know how long he had been sitting there, sick and panicking. He remembered getting another dose of naloxone later, he remembered screaming and crying and begging that they would just let him die. He also remembered Troy holding him in a restraining hug, his head against Nick's, whispering reassuring words, shushing him. Eventually he must have fallen asleep again, exhausted from the sudden withdrawal.

When he woke up it was the next day, it had to be around noon at least. The sun was illuminating the room through the open window, a soft, cold breeze stroke through his hair. Nick opened his eyes fully and saw Troy sitting in an old armchair just across the room. He was still there, not just a construct of his hallucinations. Nick watched him taking notes in his old notebook, as if nothing had happened. As if they had still been at the _bazar_ the other day and then decided to check into rehab together. Only the bandages around his head told Nick that the gruesome day at the dam had really happened. Nick took his time to examine the other man. The damaged side of his face was reddened around the edges of the bandages, his eye still a little swollen. His beard had grown even wilder, in fine, curly blonde patches on his cheeks. On a small table next to him he could spot a half-full glass of water, and a pill case, indicating that Troy needed some kind of medicine. He still wore the same clothes like back at the dam, the same striped shirt and old, soft jacket. And his leg was bandaged - Nick realized that was the reason he had walked with a limp. And still he had carried him all the way to the hospital...

Nick didn't know where to start with the questions. But the first one was the most obvious. "Why did you stay?" Troy smiled softly and looked at him, putting aside his notebook. "Well, you're important to me," he answered and it seemed sweet and honest. But Nick just looked at him with his sad brown eyes, not content with the answer. "How did you know," he asked another question, and he could feel his throat tighten. "How did you know I'd wake up?" Troy's smile shifted, just slightly, into more of a grin and he shrugged. "You didn't turn. Should have taken you about an hour, but you didn't. I had noticed you were breathing - just... flat and slow. So I kept trying to... you know. Help you."

This meant the lips he had felt in his delirium had really been Troy's. Almost a kiss. Nick instinctively licked his lips at the thought of it. Troy leaned back and looked at Nick through half-closed eyelids. "I could remember you. Couldn't remember shit, had to note down everything. But you're the first person I fully remembered and it helped me put things back into place. You're my anchor."

"You're alive man," Nick said in awe. He still had trouble believing it. "I thought you had died." He tried to sit up and cross the room, he wanted to touch Troy, to hug him - or at least be close. But he felt cold metal at his wrists and noticed he was handcuffed to the bed. "Oh - sorry for that," Troy mumbled and got up. He pulled a key out of his pocket and limped to Nick's bed. "Kadin said you might try to steal his meds to get high again."  
"Kadin?" Nick asked, confused. "Kadin Abadi. The doctor," Troy answered with a smile Nick couldn't read. He didn't know Troy was proud he actually remembered the doctor's name and chose to call him the way he'd call a friend much rather than a stranger.  
"We should get you showered and dressed." He didn't ask Nick, he just made that decision for him. "When I formally introduce my friend to him, he better doesn't smell like a drunk."

If there was one thing Nick had realized over the course of the last weeks, it was that he didn't see Troy just as a friend. He was more than that, more than just a fellow in misery, more than someone he owed. He wanted to have him around - at all times. If that hadn't been clear before, it had struck him when he had started to fantasize about Troy. When he had caught himself wondering how it would feel like to be kissed by someone with a beard. How his moans would sound and if he would moan at all. He had started staring at him and undressing him in his mind, which caused Troy to give him questioning looks... with those bright, lively eyes Nick liked so much.

Now he mostly just looked concerned, though. He helped Nick to the bathroom and stopped at the door. It had surprised Nick more than once before, how bashful Troy was. "I'll wait here," he quickly explained. "Call me in if you need any help."

Nick took his time to undress the hospital gown he had been dressed in at some point the last night. Nothing new, really. He had been there before. Discontented, he stepped under the shower and started scrubbing his skin. He really smelled of alcohol - of champagne to be exact. It mixed with his sweat to a biting stench.  
Washing himself was exhausting and... strangely lonely. Now that he knew his friend was just one room away, it felt ironic even, that he was standing here all alone. He had a plan. He leaned back against the cold wall tiles. For a moment he flashed a smile at his own transparent reflection in the glass doors of the shower, then he closed his eyes. He let out a moan, partially just to test his voice, trying to make it sound raspy. When he was confident about the sound, he called his friend. "Troy..."  
Troy's face appeared in the door. "Nick? 'you okay?" Nick shook his head slightly and tried to look miserable, wrinkling his eyebrows. "I think I'm gonna faint... can you hold me?"  
Troy stood in the room puzzled. "You should get out. Here's a towel." But Nick shook his head again. "Come in and hold me. Scrub my back," he begged in the whiniest voice he could fake.  
Troy hesitated. A moment later Nick could hear him unzip his pants. Luckily he was a good actor, he almost had to smirk. Troy was so wonderfully naive. 

The tall man entered the shower in his underwear. Nick waited a few seconds, to make sure he was soaked, so that he would not just leave again. Then he gave in to the smile that had tried to form on his lips all this time. He reached out for Troy and pulled him closer by the waistband of his shorts. Their bodies touched, and Troy's expression was more than just a little confused. He stammered Nick's name, until the boy reached up, placed a hand on the good side of his face and caught his lips in a kiss.  
And Troy answered him, he hesitantly placed his hands on Nick's hips and pressed their lips together once more. Nick would not have expected this, not so soon. But it felt all natural, and so good.

They parted again. Troy took a washing cloth and some soap and started cleaning Nick's back, just like he had requested. His movements were slow and cautious, a little insecure, a little clumsy. Nick couldn't stop smiling at the wall tiles in front of him, his thoughts of suicide forgotten in this moment of bliss.  
When he had finished his work, Troy wrapped his arms around Nick, hugged him from behind. His lips were close to Nick's ear and his voice a whisper that would almost vanish in the rushing of the shower. "Don't ever do it again." Nick knew he wasn't talking about what was happening in the shower. He could feel Troy's lips brushing his neck, sending pleasurable chills down his spine. "Don't ever leave me again." A rougher kiss on his shoulder, teeth pressing into his skin. "Either we both go or we don't," Troy demanded a little louder when he let go of him. Nick turned around. His friend's expression had turned sad, desperate. "You said you weren't dying. You weren't dying, and I wasn't dying."  
Nick could feel his own heart ache. He looked up at him, eyebrows raised and with gloomy eyes. "I thought you were dead." Troy shook his head, and although he couldn't tell in the shower, Nick knew he was crying. He reached up again to stroke through Troy's hair and they leaned their heads against each other's, foreheads touching, eyes closed. They had been terribly missing each other.

They didn't stay in the shower much longer. Troy's bandages had to be changed, they removed them and Nick helped his friend back into the room and onto his bed. There they lay, dressed in bathrobes, hair still drenched. And not going to die anytime soon.  
With a click, one of the handcuffs closed around Troy's left wrist. Nick grinned, watching the man trying to pull himself free. "Kadin will be mad if he finds me here in your place while you're free," Troy protested. Nick shrugged and reached for the other cuff, to put it around his own arm. "Okay," he said, when another click could be heard. "He'll find both of us."  
Troy stared, then smiled insecurely. This was the look Nick had wanted to see. The same look like back then, on the boar hunt. He had to snort with laughter himself. "We're in this together."  
It was a rollercoaster of feelings. As upset and desperate as they had been in the shower, they now giggled like children, happy to be reunited.

Nick didn't know when it happened. He remembered touching Troy's chest, playing with the little hair that grew there. Hands exploring each other's body, innocently at first. Troy's grip in his hair, when he pulled him as close as the shackles allowed to kiss him again. He didn't know who made the first move. He only fully realized what they were doing when he was sitting, leaning against the head of the bed and Troy's hand moved to his lap. Nick's sighs and moans were intense, Troy's were much quieter, he suppressed them more. He whispered Nick's name instead, over and over again, with his shaky voice, until only whimpers came out, begging to be released.

They had been dozing and cuddling afterwards. His chest resting on Troy's, Nick could see his wound for the first time. It looked nasty. Black stitches held together damaged skin, angry red on the edges. The area was swollen and looked a little deformed, like the skull would never just grow back together as if nothing had happened. Carefully, he touched his ear, his cheek bone. "I wish I had been able to stop her."  
Troy opened his eyes. "Her... your Mom did this?"  
_Shit._ The blue-eyed young man turned his head to look at Nick. "You know, I liked her. I really, _really_ liked her."


	8. Just Deserts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't write much here, so you can start reading! Chapter warning: it gets brutal in here, emotionally as well as physically. My background song of choice for most of the chapter is The Black Sheep from Kataklysm. It's very much a _Troy_ song, both in style and lyrics. If it's not your kind of music or you prefer calmer tunes when reading, I also had Light of the Seven from the Game of Thrones soundtrack on my playlist for this. For the epilogue I would pick something that suits Nick better, Summer Moved On by A-HA was what I used. No matter if you read it with music or in silence, I hope you enjoy it!

**Just Deserts**

It had been a risky decision to take a car. The sound of the engine, the movement, it attracted walkers. They came out of their hiding spots pretty soon, and Troy had to step on the gas to evade a growing herd at the first street corner he passed. He raced down the Sunset Boulevard, window open, because he enjoyed the cold breeze, and he could hear the moans of smaller herds all around him. They were trying to approach him. Trying to stop him. No - nobody could do that. He gave them his finger, arm stretched out through the window.

"Where did you part?" he had asked Nick the other day, while Kadin, cheeks flushed in a deep shade of red, had retrieved the key to free them from their handcuffs. "South of here," Nick answered. His expression changed to a troubled look, with slight wrinkles on his forehead. "Don't know man, I took her gun. If Victor left her, she could be dead now."

Troy knew better than that. He didn't know Victor, but Madison wasn't someone anyone other than her children would leave just like that. She was the type of person that attracted others, made people follow her - the young man knew this too well. He still felt drawn to her, even now that he knew she was the one who tried to kill him.  
She also wasn't the type to die just because someone took her gun. She would likely have found another one. But he didn't want to unsettle Nick. The boy tried to believe in the good in people and he needed to recover from the darkness that lay on his mind since the day at the dam. While Troy was still struggling with amnesia regarding that fateful day, Nick seemed heavily traumatized. So instead of worrying him about it, Troy only ever asked for bits of information, one at a time.

"Where have you been heading? You want to go home?" They had been standing on the rooftop of the hospital, looking at the endless cityscape another day. Nick had grinned, although Troy could tell the question saddened him. "I was there, nothing was left. All I was heading for was death, so I could be reunited with you."  
Troy's answer came promptly and he pulled the younger man into a tight embrace. "No need to die for that, Nicky."  
They had just been standing there, hugging for a while, until Troy broke the silence again. "Your mom, was she going home?" Nick's body stiffened at that, and he looked up to give the other man a grim stare. "Why do you keep asking... listen: she's gone. I don't want to talk about her."  
Troy shrugged slightly and hugged Nick even tighter, held him close to his chest. "You know I liked her. But it's allright. I'll stop. Promise."

Days had passed since. And now Troy was on his way through the city alone - he was on a mission. He had left a letter in the hands of Kadin, in case he would not return. And he was wearing a smile on his lips, feeling the speed of the car with the wind tugging at his arm lazily hanging out of the window.

And then it happened. _Fuck._ He had been lost in thoughts, and barely noticed the herd forming on the street ahead. With squealing tires he came to a halt. When his car turned sidewards, sliding its way into the herd, he covered his head with his arms and closed his eyes, awaiting an impact that never came.  
What did come, however, was a hand through the open window, trying to reach him, to pull him out. Troy quickly withdrew his body to the middle of the car, one leg by the driver's seat, one by the passenger seat, and pulled a knife from his boot. He would have only one chance to get out of this - and it would be dirty.  
The critical point was to keep his arm out of the reach of their mouths, while ramming the knife into their temples. Once they stopped moving he pulled them in further, to make sure they got stuck in the windows. Zombie corpses to his left and right... he bit on his lips to avoid making a sound. A second round of walkers reached in through whatever space was left in the windows, and he killed those as well, until their bodies clogged the opening and prevented any more of them getting in. A force field of death against the undead... he had used this before, but much more controlled. And never had he been in so much danger.  
Slowly he moved onto the backseats. Every sound he made, every quick movement could attract more of them. The windshield could break easily when they tried to get inside by force. 

He reached for one of the lifeless arms hanging into the cabin and sliced it open along the arteries. Then another. The blood did not shoot out like it would from a living person, but at least some ran down those dead hands, and he could use it to smear it on his face and chest, and also under his armpits, to cover his smell. _Time to wait._

It seemed to work. Calmly, patiently, he waited for the herd to calm down. _Nothing in here. No sound, no movement, just death._  
Thankfully, the car had doors by the backseats. In slow motion, he opened one of the doors, always stopping when he could see a head turn, or even just rise with interest. Inwardly he prayed to a god he did not believe in, that his camouflage was thick enough, that he could disappear in the crowd the way Nick and Luciana had taught him. When the door was open he leaned forwards to the driver's seat one last time. He grabbed his weapons and switched the stereo on to play a CD. Some kind of club music blasted out through the speakers.  
Troy smiled and turned around. He had to kill off one walker that was attracted by the sound too fast, he did it while leaving the car, stepping right into his arms and shoving his knife up the throat of that poor rotting creature. The whole situation was still risky, he could have been bitten, could have been recognized as a breathing, living human being, but he made it out unharmed. The sound of the car, the song playing through the open door, was more of a stimulus to the herd than his slow, calm movements covered in the smell of death.

He went past a street corner, and once he was out of sight, he leaned against the wall and took a few deep breaths - before bursting out in laughter. His eyes were glowing from joy, his chest was trembling from the tension finally eased. It took a couple of minutes and two approaching roamers for him to be able to collect himself again. Still a grin on his lips, he beheaded both of the undead with his machete.

He had almost reached Chinatown, it wasn't far to _El Sereno_ , the neighborhood Nick had been at home at. Troy had asked him about it. "What was it like? Did you enjoy growing up there?" Gathering information he could use to find Madison now. He sat down in the entrance of a building and pulled a folded map from his pocket. That was from Kadin... Troy didn't even need to fake interest in the city. He had never been in a place like this before, it was a whole new kind of adventure. Blythe was a small village compared to LA.  
Without a car, it was important to plan ahead the next steps. _El Sereno_ was bombed. It was likely that Madison had visited the neighborhood, but unlikely that she had stayed. Downtown LA was not an option either. Too many infected still in the buildings. Troy would not have chosen that area as a hideout, so he didn't expect Madison to go there either. "We're alike after all. We think alike. So the question is... what would I do?" he mumbled to himself. The nearby hospital? Probably. But he vaguely remembered Nick saying it hadn't been safe. He was missing something here. Slowly, he tried to locate Nick's old home. Then he traced the streets with his finger, trying to find a landmark, a hint, anything. _Paul R. Williams Senior High._ Madison had been a guidance counselor. A school would basically be her natural territory. And schools were probably one of the first places evacuated in the catastrophe, thus empty now.

Troy fished a pen out of his pocket and marked his new destination. Along the stadium... walking would take him a long time with his still not fully healed leg. He had noticed the bone wasn't growing back as it should. There was a bump on his calf, barely visible, but he could feel it when he massaged it with his fingers. And it still hurt. It was nothing compared to the fracture of his skull, but hindering nevertheless.  
But a stadium meant a lot of space for cars. Maybe someone had used the parking lots as a rest stop, back when everyone tried to flee the city and got stuck in hours and hours of traffic. If he was lucky, he could find a car that wasn't even locked. 

While he was walking down the street, Troy remembered his past few days with Nick. His smile, his laughter, so pure when something funny happened like the walker that got trapped behind the reception desk. They had dressed him in a lab coat and tied him to the chair, so whenever someone entered, the undead greeted them with flailing arms and loud grunts. Needless to say, Kadin was not amused, and a little worried about how he came in. They had never found out. He had probably been in the building all the time... hospitals weren't exactly the safest place in an apocalypse. Troy and Nick both promised their doctor that they would check all rooms and secure the entrances. 

But not today. Troy had reached the stadium and found a car which was - just like he had hoped - not locked. He sat down and stored his weapons on the passenger seat. The street out was blocked, and the stadium surrounded by some kind of embankment... Troy stepped on the gas and made his way out down the slope. He laughed while trying to keep the car under control, he felt so free doing this, breaking the rules. 

Now the school wasn't far anymore at all. The blocked streets were more of a problem, the highway was out of question. Both walkers and cars, and also walkers trapped in cars were clogging the highway and all main streets. And then there were the areas that got bombed, from what it seemed the big junctions and some bridges were among them. "If I can't cross above, I'll have to cross down there," Troy mumbled. Within minutes he reached the empty bed of the river. Another slope, luckily he found a spot where he didn't have to drive down a vertical. It was enough of a suicide mission as it was.

Leaving the river was much more complicated, he had to drive north for a while, before he could exit near a park. He had to leave the car down there and find a new one to hotwire, but this quarter was another ghost town anyway. Corpses on the streets, all rotting without standing up again. This was one of the areas the military had cleared, Troy thought. A little frustrated that he was relying on vehicles, but still feeling free and very much alive, he stopped and pulled out the map. He marked the route he would try taking with a pen... it was a little complicated, Californian cities weren't exactly built in ways that main streets could be avoided. But he found a route he liked and after 30 minutes - that could have been 15 in better conditions - he arrived at the high school.

Dark corridors, empty halls. Troy had his gun and knife ready, come whatever may. One door showed Madison's name and occupation. Impressed, Troy touched the white writing on the glass. _Madison Clark._ Her own office. But the room behind was empty. A comfortable little work space, a lot like his father's back at home. There was a desk, bookshelves, a potted flower and a small sitting area. No stains, nothing broken - the undead had spared this room. The young man looked around. Little presents on the shelves, a self-made poster on the wall... all praising Miss Clark as the best guidance counselor. He swallowed, feeling all heavy and out of place for a moment. _She should never have left the city,_ he thought. _She should never have met me._ He picked up one of the presents which had a picture attached. It must have been some kind of school trip, a small group of teens gathered around Madison, the beach in the background. All smiled. With the picture in his hands, he sat down at her desk, his arms on the surface, his eyes still fixed on her smiling face. This piece of glossy paper, this small moment of Madison's life captured in a two-dimensional form, it was everything Troy's life had never been. No school trips, they didn't have the money. And his teachers had never smiled with him.

The sound of steps in the hall pulled him out of his thoughts. He dropped the picture and reached for his gun, instinctively. A figure approached the door and Troy stood up, pushed the chair back... their glances met. She was right there, Madison, looking for an intruder, as it seemed, a knife in her hands. She let out a heavy sigh and they both put away their weapons, even though they both hesitated. Neither knew if the other wanted to kill them, end it all here and now.

"You're still alive." It felt like an eternity had passed when the words left her mouth. Her voice was soft, quiet. Troy would have hoped for animosity, maybe, but she carefully approached him, lay her hand on his arm. "I'm glad to see you again. I thought I had lost you."  
Troy knew she was just faking it. From the corner of his eye he could see her reach for the gun in her belt. He grabbed her wrist before she could touch it. But he didn't say anything. He didn't call her out for lying. It was like an old agreement, back from the very first day they met, that they would not question their behavior towards each other. 

"You know why I'm here," he said quietly. And she didn't hesitate to answer. "Yeah. I'm sorry."  
"Why?" he asked, voice so low it was almost a whisper. He didn't mean the gun in her belt or the reason he himself came here, he knew as much. He just wondered why she had tried to kill him back at the dam. "Why then, why not earlier... why there?"  
The hand that was resting on his arm reached up to touch his scar. "I'm so sorry, Troy."  
Her voice was barely more than a whisper as well, but he felt that it somehow lacked emotion. And that small detail made him furious inside. It felt so familiar and - in a way - abusive. "I deserve an answer," he said a little louder. "You owe me."

Slender fingers touched his hair, ran through the locks, caressed him in a way he never wanted to miss again. This brief moment of closeness, the loving contact, faked gentleness, they made him weak. She knew how to control him, and he knew that was what she was doing. He was almost ready to give in, to fall on his knees, to wait for her to pull her gun and execute him, if it just meant she would pet his head for a minute longer.  
Madison was a loving mother gone wrong. She was anything but loving, really - but she was good at making others believe it. And for Troy, who had never known what a real loving mother felt like, it was close enough. Even though he knew she played him, he would accept it just to keep the illusion up.

Until now. With a heavy heart he raised a hand to push hers away. "It's thanks to you that I could experience love." His voice was quiet again, and his eyes half closed. He tried to focus and to ignore all the feelings that got stirred up when he was around her.  
He didn't mean her love, knowing it was faked. He meant Nick's. Because his was pure and real, it came without conditions, without these games of manipulation. But he would never have experienced Nick's love without meeting Madison first. Troy pushed forwards, grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her against the bookshelf. Not hard enough to hurt, but so that he could block her way, hinder her from leaving the room. Now he stood by the door, and he closed it without turning his back to her. 

Madison's chest trembled a little. It was barely visible, but Troy was a good observer. A faint smile showed on his lips. "You're scared," he noted. She didn't deny it. Her lips were thin, her eyes cold. "I'm just hoping we can solve this."

"Solve this?" Troy sent her a bewildered laugh. "You already solved this at the dam, didn't you?"  
Sometimes when he was worked up he got a bit hysteric. And while his lips smiled in disbelief, the rest of his body language was intimidating. Madison closed her eyes for a second, as if to collect herself. "I'm sorry, and I mean it. I should never have done it."  
Another lie, another attempt to hide her real feelings.

Now it was on Troy to approach her, to touch her arm. His heart had started beating faster, he was angry, but he couldn't help the longing that mixed in. "Why?" he asked again, desperately. He could remember how he hurried to the dam, trying to save her. Why would she have done it the moment he was good? "Be honest."  
She pressed her lips together. Avoided his eyes. "I warned Nick... and Alicia, I had hoped Jake would get her out." Troy came even closer, the warmth of his chest radiating on hers. Madison didn't have a chance to pull her gun without him noticing.  
"You did some horrible things," she finally brought herself to say. "You said you would do it all again."

He almost collapsed, hit and hurt by the truth. As much as he hated to know she was lying, he hated this even more. She had no right to judge him. His grip on her arm tightened. "We're alike," he whispered. "You're out of control," she countered.

He took a deep breath and reached back to the weapon in his belt. It was not a gun, not his usual machete. It was a hammer. "I figured - I figured how it happened. Nasty wound. You were unarmed right? Besides this -" He held it up, so she could see it. "One like this here."

Her eyes widened. Troy knew she was scared, and he enjoyed it. This alone could have been his revenge. But it wasn't enough. She had made it pretty clear that she, too, would repeat her mistakes. There was no way out, one of them had to go.  
He reached around and pulled the gun from her belt, opened it single-handed and let the ammo drop on the floor. She did wind her hips to hinder him, but it didn't help her. Then he searched for her knife.  
Just when he had found it, he could feel her hand on his wrist, trying to wrestle the hammer out of his fingers. With one forceful move, he pushed her arm up and pinned it against the bookshelf with his own. It must have hurt her knuckles, but she didn't even wince. Her other hand reached for the next shelf, tried to get a grip on whatever she could use as a backup weapon. He dropped the knife to the floor and quickly reached for her arm to bring it up against the furniture as well, before she could find something heavy like a snowglobe. He knew she was a tough fighter, they had been in situations like this before, and he made sure to block her legs with his in a way she couldn't just kick him in the balls. He was practically leaning on her with his weight, slamming her hands against the shelf again and again, to break her resistance.

He almost hurt himself, just by looking at her. He never had wanted this to happen. If anything, he had wanted her to become family. That had been the whole point of him sparing her life. That had been why he wanted to warn her, save her at the dam. Why he had always tried to trust her despite knowing better. Why he never tried to seriously hurt her, why he would rather hug her, even when they fought. "I have always liked you," he said, his voice breaking, his throat sore.  
She used that moment. Somehow she must have figured it, something had given him away, a slight limp, not placing his weight on his damaged leg. She kicked him right into his healing bones, the pain made him wince and lose his grip on her hands. A fist landed in his face, hit the scar of his skull precisely. She used the wounds she had caused against him.

Troy stepped back, he staggered a little, but managed to hold his body up. With a desperate moan, he swung the hammer against her. His first stroke was blocked by her arm against his, but he reached out with his free hand, pulled her forwards. From here he could reach the back of her head... he didn't even think about it, just hit her again. She fell, hit a table and then the floor. Troy's hand was shaking, he could feel it getting weak, reluctant, his body knew very well he didn't want to do this. How could she bring herself to hit him like that, when he didn't attack her? His heart stung at the realization that she really must have hated him.  
She wasn't dead yet. Her hands even searched for the knife he had taken away. He bowed down and used both hands to hold the hammer, hit her skull for a second time. Then a third. A fourth. Blood was covering his hands, made the handle slippery. Somehow this was getting messy... but he couldn't stop. Only when the hammer got stuck in her head, and his hands couldn't get a good hold of it to pull it out again, he let go. He let himself fall back into a sitting position, leaned against the side of her desk - and just stared at her lifeless body. 

He had killed someone and regretted it - right there, the moment he looked at her and realized that she was gone forever. He saw the body and it made him sick. He knew it meant that she had been important to him, someone he loved, one way or another. He got up on shaky legs, picked up the weapons. His gaze fell on the desk, the picture he had been looking at earlier. He reached out a trembling hand for it. Blood smeared on the smiling teens, as he put the picture into his pocket. He left the room, carefully stepped over her corpse, and closed the door behind him. The letters on the door would work as an identifier, there was no need to leave a note. _Madison Clark - Guidance Counselor._

Outside the sun was sinking already, and it was getting colder. The clouds had gotten thicker. How long had he just sat there and stared? He made it back into the car, just in time before it started raining. There he sat again not able to move. He pulled out the picture from his pocket and looked at it. She had been smiling sincerely. What had happened, what had he done that she could never be this honest with him? He saw drops of water falling down on his hands, and he had almost looked up to see if the rain was coming in, when he realized he was crying bitterly at losing someone who had never been truly with him in the first place. The picture went back into his pocket and he started the engine. Back to the river. He stepped on the gas, pushed the car to its limits. When he reached the river he didn't slow down, he just headed for the riverbed. Braced for the impact...

 _"Holy shit, Troy!"_  
The young man opened his eyes. Apparently he was still alive, his leg hurt terribly and he could see the dirty grey concrete of the riverbed, a runlet of water in the middle of it. The sky was bright, it must have been the next day. He searched for the owner of the voice he had just heard. Two pair of boots stood nearby. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "Lost control of the car."  
Nick got down into a squatting position, and Troy noticed the car had turned over, he was lying across the roof inside, shards all around him. "Can you move your legs?" another voice asked, and Troy recognized Kadin. He started smiling, suddenly feeling like his world was okay again. Two people had come to help him, bring him back home... two people who really liked him. He had never asked Kadin if he went out at all, but he knew it was a rare occasion to meet him here. "Yeah, can move one, can feel the other," he answered. "Good to know there's still a doctor around when I have an accident in the apocalypse."

Nick and Kadin helped him out of the car wreck and back to street level on the other side of the river. Nick didn't say a word, and his expression was so grim that Troy worried if the younger knew what had happened at the school. When they were sitting in the car the others had brought from the hospital - a silver SUV in a good shape, it had belonged to one of the doctors - Troy built up his courage to ask. "You knew where I was going, Nicky?"  
Nick shot him a quick glance, but didn't answer. "Nick," Troy tried it again. A heavy sigh came from the passenger seat, an annoyed tone in his voice. "You went to look for my mom, all the way to _El Sereno,_ to settle whatever it was you had with her."  
Troy leaned back and looked down. So his friend did know it. But Nick, now that he had started talking, continued, voice strangely monotone. "You found her, and hurt yourself on her, like many times before. It was bad."

"Yeah it was," Troy whispered. "Real' bad."  
"Troy," Nick said, emphasizing the single syllable of his name in a way just he could. "I've seen you drive through the desert after days without sleep. I've seen you steering your truck through a goddamn herd of the undead." He remembered it, the day the ranch fell victim to his wrath. " _That_ was not an accident."  
Kadin, on the driver's seat, raised an eyebrow to the rearview mirror. Troy didn't know what to say, it seemed like Nick could read him like an open book anyway. And he was right, it was obvious what happened. "You killed her. It was a hunt." He seemed to wait for Troy's reaction, that he would deny it maybe, but he didn't. "You can't live with her, can't live without her. You realized it too late."  
Troy almost tried to protest. His thoughts had not been as consistent as Nick's. But at the core... the boy was right. "I'm sorry," he just said. He could remember how devastated he was, back when Nick had ended the life of his father. He was scared to lose what they had been building up the past days. Now it was Nick giving him a look through the mirror. He seemed to search his eyes. For a moment they just looked at each other. It was Nick who broke the silence. "We're even now." He reached behind his seat, touched Troy's knee. "No more killing those important to us."  
Troy nodded, realizing that Alicia was probably still alive - but she was no threat to them, so he had no reason to harm her. "And... no more killing ourselves." One of Troy's hands found Nick's and enclosed it. Suddenly he understood why Nick was in such a bad mood. He remembered what he had felt when he found him overdosed, how angry and helpless he had been. He gave Nick's hand a soft squeeze in place of an answer.

\---

**Epilogue**

Five months had passed. The heat made the asphalt flicker, the sinking summer sun reflected in the windows of the houses, dipped the city in a golden shine. Two young men sat on a bench on the _Santa Monica_ pier. They had their blood camouflage on, always the safest option when they wanted to go out in the city. Walkers passed the pier behind them, heading for the big ferris wheel. "Even the dead try to have fun these days," Nick said quietly. It made Troy smile and pull the smaller into a half-embrace. "I'm glad we're here. You and me."

It hadn't been easy all the time. As happy Nick seemed to be reunited, he had soon after fell back into depression and bad habits. Troy and Kadin had to take turns to watch him some days. Eventually the doctor had sorted out his apothecary and put him on medication... allowed him some controlled highs every now and then, that wouldn't ruin his body in the long run. There had been days when Nick sat on a sofa in the corner, staring at the colorful pages of a children's book under the influence of Kadin's lab made LSD, swearing that he could _taste_ the red head of the _very hungry caterpillar_ , while the other men worked on their research together.

"You okay today?" Troy asked, voice low so that the walkers wouldn't hear them. "Shut up, Troy," Nick said in place of an answer and a grin formed on his lips. "I'm enjoying life to the fullest. You're the psycho who's been timing people's deaths."  
Troy rolled his eyes and grimaced. He had not done that in months, not since the depot. Luciana had picked up his notebook back at the dam, and all the research was in there. Kadin had been both bewildered and amazed by the notes, the tables and formulas Troy had written down. "One day we'll find a..." Troy started, but Nick ignored him and got up. There was a gap between the small groups of undead walking down the pier, and Nick took the chance to get in. Reluctantly the older followed him, slower and far more cautious. 

Nick had found a corner with little _traffic_ , where he stopped and leaned against the railing. The sea breeze ruffled his hair and he had a blissful smile on his lips, the last rays of sunlight fell onto his face. Troy stopped a couple meters behind him and watched the beauty that was his boyfriend in Californian sunset. Then the younger climbed on the railing and Troy's heart sank to his boots. _No way._ He quickly approached and wanted to start scolding the teen, when Nick turned his head a little and said "Titanic, Troy. Come hold me."  
He had never watched _Titanic_ , but he knew very well what Nick was referring to. Troy had still been at school, had a social life when the movie screened after all. With slow steps, and relieved Nick wasn't going to jump, he came closer and reached around him, hugged him from behind. He buried his face into Nick's shoulder while the other held up his arms. "Idiot," Troy mumbled and held him even tighter. 

Life was not perfect, the apocalypse still going on, but at least they were alive. And who knew, maybe one day they would find a cure. That was what Troy thought when they returned to the hospital the night, when Kadin welcomed him with new test results from his laboratory and gave Nick a list of the things he hoped to get from a supply run the next day.  
Supply runs were Nick's tasks. Kadin had no combat experience, and Troy would probably walk with a limp forever. Sometimes one of the older men would drive him, however.  
Troy quickly scanned the lines of numbers on the sheet in his hands. "We're getting there," he whispered. His own curiosity, his talent with numbers and obsession with science paired with the doctor's professionalism and actual knowledge of the human body seemed to bear fruit. The young man gave the guy in the labcoat a peck on the cheek - a gesture the older luckily didn't mind, although he did seem a little grossed out by the blood in his face. Then he put an arm around Nick's shoulders. "Shower time," he said and they left for some intimacy. 

(The End)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's come to an end! What do you think?  
> This turned out to be twice as long as planned... I'm so sorry for the long pause between chapters. Promo material for season four made it hard for me to stay focused, but just like I finished this, I will also continue my other work. If you have not read it yet, but like the way I write Troy, you better go check out Troy's diary → [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13828734/chapters/31804089).  
> Miracles is over now. I'm just not good at the fluff... you may have noticed that (haha).


End file.
